


Wicked Game

by Sh_Boom_69



Series: Butter to Your Burnt Toast [1]
Category: Once Upon A Time In Hollywood (2019)
Genre: ....evidently, AYOOO, BUT THIS PART, December 2020, Fluff and Angst, Kinda, M/M, Making Out, Part Two, Smut, alas, also set in december, and commment to lmk if yall want smut, and this was originally supposed to be done in, anywhores, but - Freeform, but in this part, but not too much fun, by macking i mean, have fun, i just wanted an angsty christmas fic, i'll shut up, if y'all enjoy, if ya'll like this, is mainly, it was not, kk, pls enjoy this self indulgent fic, smut promised, there is just heavy macking, will have
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:08:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29321424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sh_Boom_69/pseuds/Sh_Boom_69
Summary: Cliff carefully lays him down on the couch, lips insistently brushing against his, hooked on his as Cliff’s thumbs stroke the angles of Rick’s jaw, and Cliff’s finger’s tug on Rick’s hair, and Cliff’s tongue brushes the roof of his mouth, and Cliff is everywhere. Cliff is pressing against his chest, a leg between his thighs, and Rick is suddenly overwhelmed.“I can’t do this.”
Relationships: Cliff Booth/Rick Dalton
Series: Butter to Your Burnt Toast [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2153772
Comments: 12
Kudos: 23





	Wicked Game

_**"The world was on fire and no one could save me but you** _

_**Its strange what desire will make foolish people do** _

_**I never dreamed that I'd meet somebody like you** _

_**And I never dreamed that I'd lose somebody like you."** _

***

Santa baby drifts down the street, twining between legs mischievously, and winking with rosy cheeks, laughing joyfully. Cliff sighs, an insufferable, exhausted sigh, trailing after it, wondering why anyone in fucking California for fucks sakes celebrates with no snow to mark the occasion. Cliff remembers snow, blood and dirt tracked through, teeth in frozen water, icicles of doom, and he used to celebrate then, each little piece of victory snow. That wasn’t even the only time he celebrated. He used to celebrate when he had something to celebrate for, someone to celebrate with.

But Christmas now just seemed like a show for people to put on. Greedy, gross. Give and take, take and give. Isn’t there something to compare to relationships with that song n’ dance? Cliff can relate to that at least. Loyal dog, sickening blow to the stomach, knife in the heart, sticking around, loyal, loyal dog.

Saddest part? He chuckles, shakes his head, and tugs the dog leash. He wouldn’t take it back for anything.

He can almost imagine the snow, here, but much purer. Feet in wet boots, cold to the bone, frozen toes, stomping in the snow anyway. Cliff never had the chance to see pure snow. He’d lie and say blood was much more satisfying, hoping they ignored the glint in his eye, or the slight flinch, cheek bunched against his eye. Sunglasses did fine to hide it.

Santa baby switches, and like a scene, destined to be cut, edited, and produced, Rick walks on, fumbling with bags, and cursing like a goddamn sailor, cussing the whole damn world down with a Missouri accent and a frustrated stutter. Cliff pauses, stills completely, and he can imagine the snow without blood, icicles of doom melting into pure snow to fall softly across the scene. He imagines Rick with mitten hands, bristling with frustration from the snow, and a warm hat to cover his ears, fussing with the snow instead of the crinkling bags in his arms.

Cliff stumbles forward, catching the aborted steps, and stubbornly shutting his mouth that had opened from awe. His heart stutters from the sudden coldness, absorbing the snow as it melts off Rick, returning him to his previous form. Rick is still rambling on, and Cliff can hear it now. It almost brings a smile to his face—the familiarity—but he aborts that too and allows the coldness in his heart to freeze his limbs, holding him in place as he watches Rick, crinkling bags, and frustrated words.

[Goddamn fucking guy, knock-knock-knocking into me, fucking prick, almost ma-making me drop my god—damn eggs, fucking asshole. He shoul-should—ve been watching where he was going! It’s’not like it was actually snowin’…fucking dick. And—and the lady! Yeah, she shoulda been controllin’ her dog, for God’s sakes. Wife would—would throw a fit if I did—n’t have the eggs for flapjacks. Fuckin’ eggs…]

Rick’s words fade to a stop once his eyes find Cliff's shoes, and Cliff doesn’t know how Rick recognizes his Goddamn shoes. It’s a stand-off of sorts, Rick’s eyes to shoes, Cliff’s to the top of Rick’s head, soft hair, and they both don’t know who is going to make the first move.

Cliff could reach down, help to pick up the bagels (of fucking course) from the sidewalk, or Rick could look up, _just look up,_ and seconds before Cliff melts the ice in his knees, Rick makes the trek up his jeans, the imprint of his eyes steady, pushing, burning, marking into his skin as they climb up towards his eyes, and Cliff shivers once they meet. The air whooshes out of lungs, his ears cancelling every noise that could be, and he knows in his logical brain that Brandy is bounding with barely contained energy at the sight of Rick, but he can’t even feel the strain of the dog leash, because all he can think is, all he can truly process is,

 _There is the reason why I can’t celebrate Christmas anymore,_ and, simultaneously, _why I celebrated in the first place._

Cliff _melts._

Rick breaks the moment, reaching for the bagels, and standing in front of him. He fidgets, like he wants to run far, far away, and Cliff doesn’t really blame him. He wants to run away too. Sure, with Rick in hand, (stupid loyal dog) but the context doesn’t really matter. Cliff must look really dumb, standing slacked mouth as Rick becomes increasingly more nervous, and this is Cliff’s job, even after all this time (stupid dog) to calm Rick, to be the butter to Rick’s hot toast, soothing the burns, even if it means sacrificing himself.

He forces the laxed smile, shoving his hands as carelessly as he can into his pockets, and shrugging away the freeze, “So, how you been pardner?” Rick flinches, more noticeable than when Cliff does it, turning away, welling up tears. Cliff doesn’t know what he did, but he can see the gears of self-hatred turning in Rick.

He hates the guilt Rick harbingers after all this time, and yeah, sure, Cliff is a little heartbroken, a little bitter, taking avoidance as his main coping mechanism, but he doesn’t want Rick to feel any way. He wants Rick to be happy. Even if happy is with Fran and whiskey, and not with him and Brandy. See? Bitter.

“Fine.” Rick answers, tear chocked, and Cliff is uncomfortable with the tense atmosphere, an uneasy lull between them, wound on the roof of his mouth, just won’t go away. Rick glances at Cliff’s shoulder, conflicted, and Cliff sucks his teeth. He doesn’t know what to do, for once he doesn’t know what the fuck to do. Cliff knows what he wants to do, knows deep in his gut what he’d like to do; pull Rick close, tuck sunglasses over his friend’s eyes, and shield him from the world as he breaks apart. But the logical, rational, side of him overpowers the emotions brewing in his torso, and he fists his hands in his pockets, restraining himself.

They haven’t been close like that for nearly a year.

He coughs, a tickle in his throat, and smiles again, “Well, uh, I see you’ve been driving. How’s that feel? Fran’s gotcha on grocery duty, I see.”

Rick nods, “Flapjacks,” but Rick doesn’t answer the main question, because Cliff (loyal stupid dog, he doesn’t want you, doesn’t need you anymore) knows, and Rick knows (self-hatred is too heavy on his bones) it’ll only cause more pain. Even if it instills hope, even if he says, ‘I hate it, buddy, I miss the times of air brushing the small hairs at my nape, and glancing over at you while you drive, a lazy smile on my face. I miss _you_ ,’ it wouldn’t lead to anything, or anywhere.

It’s worthless to hope for such, even if Rick feels it, he wouldn’t be able to say it.

Rick piques up with hopefulness, and curiosity, a little bit of desperation with tears in the corner of his eyes. “But, how—how are—are you? God—dam-dammit, I mean you—you—fuck—and Brandy?” He reaches a hand out to ruffle Brandy’s fur, and he smiles when Brandy licks his hand, though it’s pained around the edges, like barbed wire fence, gritting on the wire.

Cliff frowns, a stupid jealousy, “Oh, um, yeah…yeah. She’s…fine,” he glares as Rick continues showering her with love, “and, I’m good, ya know me. Same old, same old.” _Same old trailer, same old situation._ Why hasn’t he moved on yet?

Cliff stares into the eyes of the answer, and swallows down his coping mechanism of choice with a gulp.

“That’s great—”

“Yep.”

“Yeah…”

“Well, I better—”

“Do you wanna—”

“Go.”

“Come over, for, uh-uh-uh, a drink?”

Cliff’s pointed thumb, the way he came, towards the unclear destination of where his trailer might be, hovered in the air, but his eyes, wide and caught off guard, stayed locked on Ricks. He resisted the urge to stammer, and gape, to ask if he heard Rick correctly, and choked on the aftermath of avoidance clawing up his throat, vomit on his tongue. He could swallow it down, burn of the bitter, and say, “nah, I should be goin’…you know how it is.” And Rick, bless his heart, would stammer, and agree, and those damned tears would be the last thing Cliff sees.

That’s what he should do, that is what ought to happen, but he finds his thumb crumbling to his side, residing in his pocket, and his head nodding,

“Sure.”

Cliff curses the smile that lights up Rick’s face, and curses himself.

Stupid, loyal dog.

(the self-hatred still hangs on Rick’s bones)

***

It all started in Italy, or on the bed, or with the lips, or the hands, or the avoidance, but in anyway you dice it, Rick’s pretty sure it all started in Italy. To make matters worse, after Italy, they didn’t talk about it, though Rick is pretty damn sure there wasn’t anything to talk about, or maybe he just didn’t wanna talk about it, but it happened in Italy.

Then the bagels, the fucking Goddamned bagels, and the wife, and the fucking goddamned hippie fucks, and the hospital, and not visiting, and…and…

Rick couldn’t deal, shut down.

It all started in Italy.

Goddamn Italian movies, and Goddamn Italian wife.

Then there Cliff was, gaped, looking at Rick like a passerby seeing Jesus Christ after the holy five fucking days, (Rick ain’t religious, no church-going on Sundays, but he’s pretty sure, memories from childhood, that’s how the story goes), and Cliff’s fucking shoes, and his brain rebooted, shot up from the shutdown, automatic actions bullshit he had been sporting for the past year.

Bagels, fucking bagels.

He noticed Cliff staring and started crying.

Goddamn fucking tears, and bagels, and wife.

So, of course, he had to invite Cliff home.

It all started in Italy.

***

What Rick means, of course, by Italy, is the shared bed, and too many drinks, and accidental confessions, and both of them shooting down avoidance like its their favorite flavored alcohol.

Then the kiss, and hands, holding each other…it was by far way too gay by Rick’s standards…he just assumed Cliff felt the same way.

Self-destructive tendencies prevail once again.

When Rick got married, he wanted Cliff to be there in front of him instead—gritted teeth around the I do, and Cliff’s eyes on him from behind, burning Rick’s back with what Rick thought was judgement, but was probably bitter sadness.

When Rick said he had no room for Cliff, couldn’t pay him, or some dumb shit like that (he can’t or won’t remember now) he wanted Cliff to say, “Nah man, I can support myself. It’s okay.” But all he said was a paraphrased, “Okay” while smiling the trademarked Cliff smile that meant, “I know you better than you know yourself.” And it unnerved Rick so bad, he gulped down avoidance until it no longer hurt.

He started mixing his drinks with denial and avoidance, and after the hippies, after he didn’t fucking visit Cliff in the hospital—

“You’re a good friend, Cliff.”

“I try.”

Stupid loyal dog! I don’t deserve you! Go on, get! —

After Christmas—

A present he didn’t wanna face hiding under his bed, marked with the label, “From Cliff—"

And after almost a year, he thought it didn’t hurt, or at least it didn’t hurt so bad anymore.

Boy, was he fooling himself. 

***

Home—Rick’s home, he should say—didn’t look all that different since Cliff had last seen it. Of course, there weren’t hippie brains and skull fragments, but that wasn’t the scene when he last saw Rick’s home either—

The gathering of his things-

The bedroom, the bathroom, the kitchen, and the living room.

Cliff had snorted at the infestation that he had become.

Maybe Rick was right and it was time, God only knew how long they’d known each other, but perhaps…it was time-

The awkwardness was almost unbearable—

Cliff makes a wide sweep of the area, just because he thought it was appropriate, make Rick squirm a little, and stops to look Rick in the eyes. Everything is the same except for the cursing Italian wife in the kitchen and the lack of Brandy’s things.

“I like what you’ve done with the place.”

It hadn’t changed.

Rick stammered, “Yeah, yeah. I uh…I painted it.”

I guess it did, Cliff noted bitterly, he should too.

“Nice color.” Rick nods, biting his lip with a slight curl to the edge. Cliff cocks an eyebrow, “What?” Rick’s lips part, a stumbling, mischievous laugh, much like Rick with too many drinks in his system stumbling out of a bar at two a.m., collapses into the atmosphere, and Cliff asks again, “What?”

“I didn’t paint it.”

“Oh, you dick.”

But Cliff’s smiling too, and it all seems a bit too much like old times for the awkwardness to linger.

***

They drink until Cliff forgets the cruelness of Rick supplying more hope into his heart, and Rick forgets about his wife in the spare bedroom, which is never too difficult in Cliff’s presence. It really isn’t Fran’s fault and it isn’t really Cliff’s fault Rick doesn’t even slightly have his shit together.

They’d both agree it’s a part of his charm.

They’re on the couch, watching one of their old films, huddled way too closely to pretend, and the rose-tinted glasses they’re sporting because of the alcohol makes all the red-flags look like the flags of success, or cheer. Cliff snickers into Rick’s ear, hot, wet breath ghosting over the sensitive skin, every time a stunt of his comes up, and Rick tenses before snickering back.

The more drinks in them, the closer they pull together. The later it gets, the more influence the night has on them. The hours and drinks stack up, pushing them together until Cliff’s arm is languidly laid behind his neck, hand on his left bicep, fingers brushing, and Rick pressed thigh to thigh to Cliff.

Rick turns to Cliff, to say, to look, the same time Cliff looks to Rick, to see, to speak, and their lips brush, slightly, but it’s enough. It’s enough for Cliff to look down, see the rosy softness, and then gaze into the light, shy blue of Rick’s eyes. It’s enough for Rick to watch Cliff look at him as though he’s something priceless. It’s enough.

Cliff’s hand trails from his bicep, over the planes of his shoulder, and toys with the hair at the nape of his neck, then cradles Rick’s jaw. Rick keeps his gaze steady with Cliff’s, absorbs the sensations…mesmerized. Cliff’s gaze is no longer locked with his, thumb brushing the lips he’s fixated on, and he asks if he can, brief surprise filtering through Rick before he replies yes.

Cliff carefully lays him down on the couch, lips insistently brushing against his, hooked on his as Cliff’s thumbs stroke the angles of Rick’s jaw, and Cliff’s finger’s tug on Rick’s hair, and Cliff’s tongue brushes the roof of his mouth, and Cliff is everywhere. Cliff is pressing against his chest, a leg between his thighs, and Rick is suddenly overwhelmed.

“I can’t do this.”

***

It was a misunderstanding that broke them apart.

It was a misunderstanding that broke their hearts.

It was just a misunderstanding.

How did it end up like this?

***

Rick is sobbing, and Cliff, again, doesn’t know what to do. He, again, knows what he wants to do, but wants and needs, and shouldn’ts and shoulds, often do not go together. He pauses with his hand hovering over Rick’s back, and hopes that Rick would lean back.

He doesn’t, and Cliff gingerly lays his hand there.

***

Cliff is whisperin’ sweet things like, “C’mon sweetheart, you’re all right, this is okay. You’re beautiful.” And Rick’s heart hurts, it squeezes each time a compliment slips past his lips. It shrivels and dies each time he captures a glance at the wide eyes with worry, and the drooping lips of heartbreak.

Rick first moves from the hand, then stands from the couch, and resolutely checks on his wife.

The heartbreak stinks the air, pungent with a layer of anger to hide the smell, and Rick grimaces.

He closes the door, and leaves Cliff on the couch.

***

He watches his wife guiltily as she sleeps, and rubs a hand over his face, “Oh lord, what’m I gonna do?”

Her sleeping form moves, and she mutters in Italian, and he snorts.

He likes her well, they’d come to form a certain tolerance for each other like roommates, a certain fondness, but…but…

Avoidance comes sporting itself in a pretty lil’ shot glass, and Rick takes a sip before going back out.

He’s surprised Cliff is still there.

Stupid, loyal dog.

(he thinks with a fondness, and pushes the answer away like a disease.)

***

Cliff is surprised, angry, that he’s still here, waiting on Rick. Okay, maybe not so much surprised, but definitely a lot of anger. He grits his teeth as he stands, and crosses his arms so he doesn’t fucking s _trangle_ Rick.

“We need to talk.”

“I kept the—the—the gift,” that throws Cliff, more than blood snow, or teeth infested ice, but he recovers, and rolls his eyes the best he can,

“Yeah, it’s a gift. You’re supposed to keep it. Doesn’t change the fact that we need to talk, and we’re fucking gonna.” Rick blinks, resembling a cornered animal. Brandy raises her head in intrigue, cocking her head as she watches them, and moves further away from the stench of anger and bottled-up emotions.

“My wife’s asleep in the next room.”

“Yeah, your wife.” It bites like a pit-bull’s jaw, and locks onto Rick, evident by the flinch across his face. He moves ashamedly away from his wife’s bedroom, “Who’s sleeping in the spare, by the way. Tell me about that, hm?”

Rick doesn’t like the way Cliff’s face is settling like wet cement that had been shit in and scratched over: bitter and miserable with its own existence. He doesn’t like looking at it. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“We have to. I’m sick of this bullshit.”

“Can’t—Can’t it just go back to how it was, like old times?” Cliff clicks his tongue, an acerbic smile, and Rick knows it can’t ever go back to how it used to be.

“You sure you _want_ it to go back to old times?” Cliff widens his stance, and tightens his arms, biceps flexing, and Ricks heart stutters at the show, at the way Cliff offers an image of all Rick would be missing.

Rick opens his mouth to reply, but Fran walks out, rubbing her eyes sleepily, and kisses Rick on the cheek as she passes. “It’s okay.” She whispers in a soft accent against his ear, breath blowing sweetly, “I’ll stay in a hotel.” She smiles at him, and Rick has an astute clarity she knows more than he could ever comprehend.

She squeezes Cliff’s shoulder as she passes, grabs Rick’s wallet and his keys at the door, and leaves.

They hear the car depart from the driveway a few seconds later, and they’re alone.

***

When Fran left, she whispered, “Give him some consideration, he’s trying.” And “He’s missed you far more than you could ever know.”

And Cliff replied, “I am.” And “I missed him too.”

All without moving their lips.

***

They’re at an impasse, Rick staring at Brandy, bitten lips, and hunched shoulders. Cliff staring at Rick, squared shoulders, and gritted teeth.

“Rick.” He doesn’t turn, resolutely ignoring him, and Cliff hurts, bristles. “Rick, look at me.” Rick turns, slightly, but it still isn’t enough, and Cliff sighs before striding over, finger hooking Rick’s chin, and bringing their lips close, close enough to touch, just not quite so. Cliff could, could kiss Rick and allow himself to be used, and just be close again, find some semblance of affection. He could fool himself into thinking it was love and not toxicity.

It would be so, so easy to choose Rick.

But he declines the shot glass of avoidance, and decides its time to choose himself.

“I’m not touching you until we talk about this.”

“Who said I want—want--wanted to be touched by you?” Rick’s fierce determination, the coldness that has never been directed at him, and all the determination drains to his limbs, then leaks into the floor.

“I can’t do this anymore, Rick.” He sags, forehead on Rick’s shoulder. “I’m done. Let me go, please let me move on.” Cliff’s body absorbs the alert permeating Rick’s body, even after he’s exhausted, still ready to be Rick’s in whatever way he wants.

Rick’s hands clutch Cliff’s biceps and pull him closer.

“No.”

***

**"What a wicked game you play, to make me feel this way**

**What a wicked thing to do, to let me dream of you**

**What a wicked thing to say, you never felt this way**

**What a wicked thing to do, to make me dream of you,"**

***

Rick doesn’t have the answers to most of his antics, but the warmth underneath his palms supplies him with enough clarity he understands he could never be without Cliff again. “No, no. Stay. Please stay.”

Cliff removes himself, a wearied expression, and tired eyes, “You’re explainin’ yourself.”

Rick bites his lip, but gives into the worn-down man before him, “Okay, just please—please stay.”

Cliff raises to his full height, “Fine.” He nips Rick’s lip, and walks back towards the couch.

Rick follows after.

***

They talk, and its messy, and sad.

Rick says too much.

Cliff doesn’t say much at all.

“I want this, don’t you?” –Cliff

Rick— “I don’t know what I want…” a pause, two beings so utterly wrong, so utterly right, for each other, “all’s I know is I can’t live without you.”

“Shouldn’t that be answer enough?”

“Not always.”

“Okay.”

They speak without words, honesty without the passing of letters, and commas, and bullshit.

“I can’t live without you either.” Cliff says by a hand on Rick’s knee, and Rick places a hand over Cliff’s,

“Now you won’t have to.”

They kiss, knowing they have all the time in the world to lay their hearts bare, beating rapidly in each other’s palms, and learn to trust the other will hold it gently against their chest as though it’s their own, instead of stomping it into the ground so they couldn’t ever love another.

Cliff thinks love, true love, or maybe just their love, is a mashup of both. He couldn’t ever love another after Rick.

Rick thinks love, true love, or perhaps just their love, is a mashup of both. He couldn’t trust another with his heart after Cliff.

Cliff’s the butter to Rick’s burnt toast, and that’s all that really matters in the end.

***

**"No, I don't wanna fall in love**

**(this world is only gonna break your heart)**

**With you."**

**-Wicked Game by Chris Isaak**

**Author's Note:**

> I will write smut in a part two, kind of like a continuing on to wrap up some loose details if ya'll want. LMK in the comments.


End file.
